Accented Spanish and Sugar
by Hazel-Beka
Summary: When they first met, England lied to him, and as he grew older, England invaded him, fought with him, stood up for him and slowly fell in love with him. Cuba/England
1. Chapter 1

**A/N - Yes, this fic is Cuba/England, and it's a fic I'm de-anoning from the kink meme. It was written for the rarepairs challenge request, which was basically a challenge to write a pairing that had never before appeared on the kink meme. I'd never thought of this pairing before then, but as World/England is pretty much my OTP, I ran with it and it got really long (it's almost 40 pages on Word). Although the fic is completed, I'm going to post the different parts as separate chapters and I'll post a chapter every day or every couple of days. Expect a lot of historical content (because the request was to show how the pairings would _work_), an unusual chronology (there's a continuous storyline going on in the present day interspersed with moments from various times in the past) and also some mature content later on (hey, I _did_ write this for the kink meme after all!). The first few chapters are a lot shorter than the rest, but bear with me and I hope some more people will grow to like this pairing~ :)**

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_13 July 2009, José Martí International Airport _

The plane landed, and somewhere to the north, America disapproved. More than that, he Disapproved with a capital D, and probably with bold and italics as well, but England shook away the thought of America standing and scowling like a petulant child. He stepped out of the stifling aeroplane, stretching his legs and trying to work the crick out of his neck.

Who cared what America thought anyway? He could ban his own people from visiting Cuba if he liked, but he had no say over who England decided to associate himself with. Besides, he was here on official business. Well. Sort of. The Royal Ballet was dancing in Cuba and England had tagged along to supervise and improve international relations. Or so he had told his prime minister anyway. Whatever the case, he was certainly _not_ here for a holiday.

Following the dancers out of the hot, heavy air and into the weakly air-conditioned terminal building, England wished he was wearing something more suited to the weather than his suit trousers, shirt (albeit short-sleeved) and tie. His suit jacket hung over his left arm while a discreet sports bag containing his hand luggage rested on his right shoulder, hand rooting around in his pocket for his passport.

As he officially entered the country and moved on to wait for his suitcase to appear, England switched his mobile phone back on. Already he had two sulky texts from America accusing him of consorting with the enemy. England rolled his eyes and deleted them without bothering to reply. America did have a point, of course, in a way, but when England thought of Cuba it wasn't politics that immediately sprang to mind. What Cuba meant to England was tobacco smoke, accented Spanish and sugar. But maybe that was because he could mentally separate the country from its government, and the nation from the man. Because when England thought of dreadlocks and liquid brown eyes, Cuba was all he could see.

He saw him now, in fact, waiting with some other official-looking men and women who were greeting the dancers and welcoming them, but England didn't pay attention to what they were saying and walked straight past them, eyes locked on Cuba's bored gaze until he stopped in front of the other nation. There was a pause for perhaps a split second, and then Cuba clapped him on the back, showing pearly white teeth as he grinned at England, and England found his own lips twitching up into a smile in return.

"Hey, what took you so long?" Cuba asked in his Caribbean brand of Spanish that came as a shock to England's system no matter how many times he heard it. "It's about damn time you came and paid me a visit!"

"I could say the same to you," England replied, slipping easily into Cuba's native tongue. It was common courtesy to use the language of the host country, after all, although England generally made an exception with France, just on principle. "Is it really so hard to get on a plane and fly over to Europe instead of whinging while you wait for me to come to you?" Cuba waved his words away with an idle flick of the wrist.

"And freeze to death on your godforsaken island?" he asked. "Not likely." England punched him on the arm and Cuba laughed, drawing the attention of several members of their group. England loved Cuba's laugh. Never one to do things half way, the island nation was loud and unapologetic when showing his amusement. England often told him that he sounded like a dog barking when he laughed, but then Cuba would turn around and reply that at least he _did_ laugh, and he'd do something stupid to try and make England join in. Often he failed, but only because England wasn't about to let him have his way. It was one of his personal policies to never encourage idiots after all.

But as England climbed onto the coach that would drive the ballet company to their hotel, Cuba graciously standing aside and blocking the aisle as he gestured for England to take the window seat, England considered that, for an idiot, Cuba wasn't actually half bad.

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**Notes:**

**The Royal Ballet Company really did visit Cuba in July 2009 on a five day visit. It was incredibly popular - every ticket sold within hours of them being put on sale.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N - Because this is a ridiculously short chapter, I'll upload the next one today as well :)**

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_16 September 2008, United Nations General Assembly_

"I can't believe you!" America stormed, red in the face and _this_ close to dissolving into a temper tantrum. "This is the seventeenth year that you've voted against the embargo! You and the rest of the world! What's _wrong_ with you all? Do you actually support that evil, corrupted communist son of a-"

"Shut up, America," England cut him off icily. "Stop acting like a child. I'm sure it's been explained to you numerous times why no one agrees with your policies on Cuba. Or any of your foreign policies, really, when it comes down to it."

"You say that," America hissed, fists clenched so that his knuckles whitened under the pressure, "but your government goes to war with whoever the fuck I tell them to." England's eyes narrowed, but he kept his cool, not wanting to cause a scene in a building full of nations and their politicians.

"You need to differentiate between the people and the government," he said through gritted teeth, ignoring America's goading as best he could. "What you're doing – severely limiting income from trade and tourism from the United States to Cuba – is _not_ helping the Cuban people or dissuading the Cuban government from doing the things it's doing. If anything, you're damaging the country _more_ – increasing poverty, causing a lack of proper healthcare-"

"Don't you understand?" America demanded. "I thought you'd been around for long enough to know that sacrifices have to be made sometimes! We can't support a country that so blatantly disrespects human rights!"

"But the ironic thing, America," England said so quietly that America had to lean slightly closer to hear his words, "is that you aren't supporting the _victims_ either. You're making their lives _worse_. Nobody's saying that the current political situation there is right, but when you've been trying the same method of stopping them for almost fifty years and it hasn't worked...well, don't you think it's time to try something new?"

They tried to stare each other down, their fury receding but not disappearing.

"You know," America said eventually, and his tone had frozen over the fiery passion of before, "the rest of the world can think what they damn well like, and they can call my policies wrong all they damn well like, but you know what, England? They can't do a fucking thing about it. I do what is _right_, and if no one else can see that, so be it. But the US of fucking A is the one who calls the shots in this world." And he turned and strode away, leaving England to regret for the umpteenth time how much he had spoilt America as a child.

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**Notes**

**This part is about the USA having imposed a trade embargo on Cuba since 1960 as a protest against human rights breaches made by the government (plus the fact that, you know, Cuba is Communist and the embargo was started during the Cold War...). US citizens are also not allowed to travel to Cuba (though I think this is being revised at the moment...it might have already been overturned. In 2009 it was still active, anyway). Trade laws have been relaxed in 2000 though, with it being legal now to sell some 'humanitarian' goods to Cuba.**

**At UN General Assemblies since 1992, every single country except the USA and literally only a couple of other countries have voted against the embargo since it's not really working. At all. In fact, the EU are so convinced that it's doing more harm to the Cuban population than actually helping them (as well as harming trade opportunities for Europe) that they've actually passed a law making it illegal for EU citizens to obey the US law enforcing the embargo.**


	3. Chapter 3

_13 July 2009, Hotel Inglaterra_

Once England had checked into the hotel and found his way to the room he was going to tentatively call his own for the next five days, he tried to settle in as best he could between the neutral colours and the clinical atmosphere of a room that nobody could call their home. Cuba watched him from where he was sitting on the bed, having invited himself in, resolutely ignoring England's sarcastic comment thanking him for helping him unpack.

"I didn't have you pegged for someone who enjoyed watching ballet," England said distractedly as he folded clothes and squeezed them into insubstantial drawer space. He saw Cuba shrugging out of the corner of his eye.

"Dancing in all its forms is something I enjoy," he replied. "Besides," he added a little slyly, "you're not really the type either, are you? You may act like the English gentleman, but I've _heard_ things about you, England." England paused in the act of removing a shirt from his suitcase and looked suspiciously at Cuba.

"Like what?" he asked. "And from who?" Cuba tapped the side of his nose, grinning.

"I don't reveal my sources," he said, and England could feel his gaze on the back of his neck as he moved over to the wardrobe, "but is it really true that you had your nipple pierced during your punk days?"

England flushed slightly, wondering why Cuba had even been involved in a conversation like that with France (it _had_ to have been France, who else would gossip about him like that?), but he was spared from having to reply when his ring tone started playing. He frowned and checked his pockets, but then the ringing stopped and he turned around in surprise when he heard Cuba switch from accented Spanish to accented English.

"Hey there, America," he drawled, and England's eyes widened. He lunged for the phone.

"Give me – mmph!" Cuba smacked a hand over his mouth and held him at arm's length, twisting away so that England couldn't reach to snatch his mobile back.

"Of course it's me," Cuba continued into the phone. "And I'd love to hand you over to England, but I'm afraid he's kinda busy right now. Try calling again later when I'm not fucking him into the mattress." He hung up, looking viciously satisfied for a second before England's outraged fist collided with his cheek, almost sending him off the bed and onto the floor.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" England all but screamed at him. "I don't _care_ how much you hate America, don't fucking spread rumours about me like that!" Cuba grinned up at him, seemingly undeterred by the pain in his jaw, although he did wince as he raised a hand to his face, England noted with vague satisfaction through his rage.

"Oh, come on, lighten up," Cuba said, switching back to Spanish, his blasé tone annoying England even more. "It's not like you wouldn't stoop to whole new lows just to piss France off. You telling me you've never lied about anything?" He raised an eyebrow, but before England could reply, his phone started ringing again, America's name flashing on the screen. He dived towards it, but Cuba was faster and threw it onto the bedside table where it skittered along the wood to collide with the wall, well out of reach.

"You-!" England tried to climb over Cuba to get to it, but Cuba grabbed him by his upper arms, effectively restraining him. "Let me go!"

"You can call him later," Cuba insisted. "Let him think I'm fucking you for just a bit longer. Or..." England suddenly found himself lying on his back, pressed down against the cool sheets by the larger man pinning him to the bed, "how about we make it more than just a game of let's pretend?" He locked his gaze with England's, dark eyes smouldering, before leaning down and roughly closing the gap between their mouths. He nipped and sucked at England's lips until the smaller nation gasped, and Cuba didn't hesitate to press further, push deeper into that soft, pliant heat, pillaging England's mouth with his tongue.

And then England found his self-control and abruptly pushed Cuba up and away from him, ending the kiss with a wet, smacking sound. He kept his hands on Cuba's shoulders, keeping him at bay as Cuba hovered above his body, unwilling to move any further away.

"Enough," England said as firmly as he could, although the breathy tone his voice had taken on didn't quite create the stern impression he was going for. "Get off me, Cuba."

"Why?" Cuba asked, leaning down again and smirking as England's arms buckled under his superior strength, unable to stop him from nuzzling along England's jaw and pressing an open-mouthed kiss just underneath his ear. "You like having sex with me." England clenched his fists in Cuba's shirt at the cockiness of his statement. "You love it," Cuba breathed in his ear, one of his hands sliding down England's torso to start tugging his shirt out from where it was tucked into his trousers. "Let me make you scream my name..." England's will wavered as Cuba's fingers found skin and his nails scraped gently over his hip, but then his phone started ringing again for the third time – when had it stopped before? – and England found his strength, shoving Cuba away and wriggling out from under him, taking a couple of steps away from the bed so that he was out of reach in case of further acts of molestation.

"I don't have sex with people just so that they can spite someone else," he said harshly to try and distract himself from the heat that had started to pool in his stomach. Cuba slowly stood up, and England tried to take another step back, but his body didn't seem to want to obey, and so he remained standing where he was.

"But England," Cuba said, tilting his head and staring at him with an intensity that should have _burnt_, "you do." There was a moment of silence so thick that England had never been more aware of his shallow breathing and the blood pounding in his veins, and of every single cell in his body _aching_ for Cuba's touch, Cuba's heat, the slickness and friction of skin against lips against tongue against _teeth_...

And then Cuba turned away and the spell snapped, leaving England burning and wanting as he left the room, the door clicking quietly shut behind his retreating form.


	4. Chapter 4

_25 November 1962, Havana_

Cuba looked strained and angry as England entered the office, but that was no surprise. After all, England himself was on edge just being in the country right now.

"Are you even allowed to be here?" was Cuba's opening question, and England was almost relieved that there was no preamble or fake pleasantries to deal with.

"I can do what I like," he replied curtly, standing in front of the desk behind which Cuba had also risen to his feet. Cuba didn't invite him to sit down, which was just as well because England would have ignored the courtesy. There was far too much tension already in the room – in the whole _country_ – for them to sit and talk and put up a front of civilised diplomacy. England was _sick_ of diplomacy.

"So it seems," Cuba said, his eyes never moving from England's face, barely blinking, and England wondered if Cuba saw him as a threat. "And what exactly do you want from me?" He moved then, leaning a hand on the desk and hunching his powerful shoulders as he bent forwards slightly at the waist. The desk was too low down for him to do otherwise. "Why are you here, England?"

"To ask you what the fuck you thought you were doing." England realised that his fingers were shaking in anger and he clenched his fists. "Taking nuclear weapons from Russia when you _knew_ that America would see it as a threat? I never realised you were quite so _utterly_ stupid as to get involved in this mess." Cuba's eyes narrowed, and England could see the hate building up behind them at the mention of America's name.

"Oh, it's OK, I _get_ it now," Cuba snarled, his accent becoming more indiscernible. "It's fine for _America_ to hand out weapons of mass destruction because _obviously_ America can be trusted not to do something stupid like start a nuclear war. So it _must_ be Russia who's the bad guy here – Russia and anyone he associates himself with. And why? Because America's a hypocritical piece of shit who thinks he owns the whole fucking world." He slammed his other hand down on the desk, trembling with fury. "You know why you're allowed to have nukes, England, and I'm not? It's because you're _weak_. You're nothing more than America's bitch. He tells you to jump, you ask for a mission briefing. It's _pathetic_." England tried to restrain himself, he really did, but his patience was already spread so thin that there was no way he could have prevented what happened next. Or so he told himself later when he needed an excuse.

"Oh really?" he growled, striding up to the desk and banging _his_ fists down on it, mirroring Cuba and bringing them eye to smouldering eye. "But couldn't I say the same about you and Russia? You think he respects you? You think he sees you as anything more than a launch pad for his fucking missiles? You're getting ahead of yourself if you think you actually _matter_." Cuba's fist was instantly bunched in England's shirt, dragging him forwards roughly across the desk until they were practically nose to nose.

"And you think you do?" the darker man hissed, his temper strained so far that England could _feel_ the breaking point approaching, could sense the tension as in a bow string before it _snaps_. "That little brat you raised has usurped you from your throne at the top of the world. You're _nothing_ now, England. You're _less_ than nothing."

"Shut up," England growled, and Cuba must have felt him shaking because he laughed and pulled England that tiny bit closer, wound him up that tiny bit more.

"It hurts, doesn't it?" Cuba crowed, and he looked almost mad with vindictive pleasure at England's expense. "It must _really_ hurt to see that _child_ running the show while you don't matter a goddamn bit _and where's your empire now, England_?"

And then something broke, and England felt the _crack_ of his fist colliding with Cuba's jaw before he saw it, because all he could see was red, red, red, and that was ironic because it was Russia's red that had started this goddamn war in the first place. He swung again, but Cuba blocked his fist with his arm, and the impact of knuckles on bone shocked through them both. Cuba recovered first, grabbing him, _pulling_ him into the desk, painfully, brutally, knocking the wind out of him. England tried to move back, but Cuba tugged again, _hard_, and England crashed into the desk again, reaching up to claw at Cuba's face, yank at his hair, and then suddenly Cuba's teeth were tearing at his lips and England had ripped the buttons from Cuba's shirt.

There was no word but fucking for what happened on the desk after that. It was frantic and messy and painful and _red_; blood staining England's fingers as his nails clawed grooves in Cuba's back, blood blooming on their bodies where teeth sank into flesh, blood trickling unnoticed down England's trembling thighs, spilling from split lips and bitten, bleeding shoulders. There was nothing but red as England gasped, face pressed against god knew what official documents, Cuba's hands leaving bruises on his hips as the other nation ground into him, staining him crimson and _England didn't care_.

He cried out hoarsely as he came, arching back against Cuba, who didn't relent and kept up his pace until he too reached the peak of his fury, shooting his anger violently, cathartically, into England's body.

And then there was only the sound of their laboured breathing slicing through the air.

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**Notes**

**This chapter is, obviously, about the Cuban Missile Crisis where Russia supplied Cuba with nuclear missiles. The USA found out, and since being surrounded by Communists with nukes ranks pretty highly on America's DO NOT WANT scale, they put a stop to it. Some years earlier, though, the US had set up missiles in the UK which could bomb Moscow if necessary. I think they set up nukes in other countries too, but I don't remember which ones x_x**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N - This is going to be the last update for a few days because I'm going to be away for the weekend. Expect the next chapter on Tuesday when I ought to be home with my beloved laptop again~ Oh, and this is the last really short chapter. After this, they become progressively longer and longer.**

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_14 July 2009, Hotel Inglaterra_

England didn't see Cuba again that day. He didn't see him the next morning either, or through the first half of the afternoon. But that was to be expected, he supposed. After all, it wasn't as if Cuba didn't have work to be doing. England contemplated stopping by his office, just to see if he was there, but eventually decided against it. If not before, then he would definitely see Cuba that evening at the first performance of the Royal Ballet Company.

England spent a good hour of the morning on the phone to America. He had called him back the night before, of course, to assure him that Cuba was just being a dick and to disregard everything that he had said. It was quite an embarrassing conversation, at least for England – America went off on a rant about what he would do if Cuba threatened England's virtue again, whatever _that_ was supposed to mean – and so England faked losing his signal and hung up, turning off his phone before America could call him back.

He couldn't escape the next morning, however, and America called to make sure that he hadn't been molested during the night. Once America had been reassured that there had been a definite lack of sexual harassment over the past twelve hours or so, he started talking enthusiastically about something to do with giant robots and laser guns and England thought he heard him mention aliens a couple of times, but by that point he had mainly tuned out and was reading the newspaper while making occasional bored noises to let America know that he wasn't listening to a word he was saying.

By the time 3pm rolled around, England had ventured down to the hotel's private beach and walked a little way along the coastline, shoes dangling from his hand as he splashed barefoot through the breaking surf on the shore. He hadn't got far when he was brought out of his inner musings by the sudden awareness of another person falling into step beside him.

"Got sunburnt yet?" Cuba asked, ignoring all conversation-starting conventions in his usual way. His tone was slightly softer than normal and his hand brushed lightly against England's as they walked. England recognised this as the precursor to an apology; a method of testing the waters and determining whether England was in the mood to kiss and make up.

"Not yet," he replied neutrally. "But we both know that it's only a matter of time." They walked a little further and then Cuba gently touched his arm, starting to head inwards as the beach tapered off into a narrow strip of rocks, leading England past the last straggling tourists trying to find a place in the sun. They walked in silence over the sand until it turned to grass, and Cuba only stopped them when they were among a group of trees, out of sight from the beach but still able to glimpse the blue of the sea between the trunks.

"America's a jerk," were the first words out of Cuba's mouth, and England rolled his eyes at this typical statement. "I only wanted to piss him off," Cuba carried on, resolutely keeping his gaze from making eye contact with England. He scuffed his shoe on the ground a bit and mumbled, "I like you though, and I know I can't stop you being friends with him. So, uh. I won't use you to annoy him again." It was such an adorably awkward and indirect apology that it awakened certain instincts in England, giving him the strange urge to pat Cuba on the head and call him a good boy.

"Thank you," he replied instead, and Cuba finally looked at him, relief clear in his gaze now that he had got that over with. England couldn't help but smile. He knew that Cuba had a stubborn streak and it somehow made him feel warm inside to know that Cuba prioritised him over his pride. "I've sorted things out with America now anyway," he said as he slipped his shoes back on, "so don't worry about it. Now," he turned around and started making his way back through the trees, "shall we go back to the-" His sentence died as two strong arms wrapped themselves around him, stopping his progress and tugging him gently backwards so that he could feel Cuba's chest on his back, his face turned into England's hair.

"You know," Cuba said softly, his breath blowing strands of England's blond locks, making them tickle against his temple, "I'm only sorry for the phone call." He moved his hands down England's sides, slowly, sensually, letting his fingers drag in the softness of the cotton t-shirt separating skin from skin. "I'm not going to apologise for kissing you." Something about the way he said 'kissing', shaping the word sugar-sweet in his language, gave it connotations that slipped beyond the innocence of a kiss and into the realms of the deeper pleasures of sex. England shivered as Cuba's fingers moulded themselves to his hips, and then Cuba rolled his own hips, pressing against him, and England moaned low in the back of his throat, tilting his head back and flicking his tongue out, wetting his lips.

"I wouldn't ask you to," he murmured, voice lost in the slight Caribbean breeze and the susurrus that it whispered into life. He turned slowly, slipping through Cuba's hold like water, and their lips brushed together into a kiss, lazy and sensual, moving their mouths against each other to the sound of the waves breaking quietly onto the shore.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N - I'm back! I had a great weekend at Manchester Gay Pride~ It was awesome! Amnesty International had a stall there and a slot in the parade - I rather liked their slogan: 'Love is a human right'. Damn straight, Amnesty (or, you know. Not straight). So, to celebrate Pride, have a chapter of a fic about gay countries? XD**

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_22 April 1917, Plymouth_

England watched the ship sail into the harbour with relief. He finally allowed his muscles to relax after tensely waiting for so long, the effort of trying not to fear the worst having taken its toll on him. He didn't approach the ship immediately as its crew started to lug the heavy cargo onto dry land, choosing instead to watch from where he was leaning against the wall of an old and slightly grimy pub, sharp gaze searching for a single figure amongst the rest.

And there he was. England's heart suddenly felt light as Cuba made his way down the gangplank, and he closed his eyes for a moment because now everything was all right. When he looked again, it was to see that Cuba had spotted him, even from this distance, and their gazes locked across the busy shipyard, the world around them shrinking down to that _look_. It was a look like chains and iron, and it bound them together in a way that sinking ships could never tear apart.

And then the spell was broken as Cuba tore his eyes away, distracted by someone shouting his name. England paused by the wall, knowing that he should leave Cuba to unload the ship with his countrymen. However, even as that thought passed through his mind, he found himself standing up straight and starting towards the Caribbean vessel as if his legs had taken on a life of their own.

As he approached, he watched Cuba and another man carry a crate down onto the docks and pile it on top of another identical crate. The ship had docked early and the lorries that would carry them away had not yet arrived, so the cargo was accumulating next to the ship. As Cuba looked up and saw England hanging back, he waved the other man back towards the ship and beckoned England over to him. They stood a little apart from the rest of the crew, trying to find a little privacy in the hustle and bustle of the shipyard.

"I heard you were starving to death," was Cuba's opening line, "so I brought you some sugar." England stared at his easy smile and the cold sea breeze was wiped from his senses, replaced with the heat of the Caribbean sun.

"Thank you," he said with as much heartfelt gratitude as he could fit into two words. "I know it isn't easy to sail to Britain at the moment. I'm just – I'm glad you made it all right." Cuba laughed and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing reassuringly.

"Like any stupid submarines could get in my way," he scoffed. "Let Germany try and stop me from sailing where I want! I'd like to see him try!" England was torn between fond exasperation at Cuba's confidence and a genuine worry for his safety.

"Don't tempt fate," he warned. "The U-boat campaign has been getting worse recently. So many merchant ships have been sunk in the last couple of months." He nipped lightly at his lip with his teeth. "You know, since I united with my brothers, Britain's status as an island has usually been a good defence in war. Trust Germany to turn that into a complete disadvantage." He looked darkly out at the sea where the waves were being whipped up by the wind, crashing against the dock walls and showering passers-by with saltwater. The sound of splintering wood made him look back towards Cuba in surprise, only to see that the other nation had opened one of the crates, revealing several bags of sugar inside.

"Don't be so pessimistic," Cuba said, reaching down to untie one of the sacks. "After all, I've officially entered this godforsaken war now, so you can just sit back while I bring you presents and kick Germany's ass for you. How's that sound?" England found that he couldn't stop the small smile from spreading across his lips like a single ray of sunshine on a cloudy day.

"It sounds good," he replied, wishing that everything could be so simple. He was _tired_ of fighting. "It sounds really good." Cuba finally straightened up, the bag of sugar open and propped up against the side of the crate so that it didn't spill any of its precious contents. "What are you doing?" England finally asked, eyeing it in confusion. Cuba beckoned him closer in response.

"Something I shouldn't," Cuba said, his voice lowered conspiratorially. "But if you don't tell anyone then I won't. Here," he gestured towards the bag. "Try some. Cuban sugar is the best in the whole damn world." England hesitated, but then bent down, taking the tiniest amount of white crystalline powder from the bag, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger.

"I'm sure it is," he agreed, holding it carefully and examining it as if it were a rare jewel. "I haven't had anything sweet for such a long time," he added quietly, and looked up to see Cuba watching him with something akin to sympathy on his face. And there was that look again, as strong as steel and gentle as the warm, foreign breeze in his homeland. England knew that Cuba could feel it calling him back, but here he was, standing on the English shore after braving the sea where storms were the least of sailors' worries right now...

Cuba watched curiously as England wet his lips with his tongue and then sprinkled the sugar onto them. He didn't pull away as England tilted his head up and closer, and when England kissed him, the sounds of the harbour drifted away, lost behind the sweetness of the sugar coating their lips and melting on their tongues. England reached up and cupped Cuba's face in his palms, feeling the roughness of stubble on his fingers and the warmth of Cuba's skin chasing away memories of freezing, muddy trenches and the sight of blood blooming across France's chest.

They only broke apart when a small but deliberate cough broke through the boundaries of their world, and they jerked apart, England feeling a blush spread across his cheeks and not daring to look at Cuba to see if he was equally as red. One of Cuba's shipmates was standing nearby, looking just as embarrassed as England felt, and he addressed Cuba in Spanish, informing him that the lorries had arrived and the sugar could now be sent out into Britain to the people who were slowly starving in their own homes.

As Cuba replied, England noticed that he didn't move his hands from where they'd gravitated to his waist, one of them pressed against the small of England's back, keeping him there. Once the sailor had bolted, England felt sticky lips press against his cheek, and Cuba squeezed him gently, embracing him as if he wanted to pull the war right out of England's bones. England rested his forehead against Cuba's shoulder for a moment, closing his eyes and silently soaking up all of the comfort that the strong body holding him was offering. Then he pulled away and reached down to re-tie the bag of sugar as securely as he could.

"The war will end soon," Cuba said softly. His hand reached out and tangled in England's hair, unable to stop touching him.

"And if it doesn't?" England asked, leaning into the touch as fingers ghosted down to the nape of his neck, stroking the fine hairs there. Cuba smiled at him like a Caribbean sunrise.

"Then I'll bring you more sugar," he promised.

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**Notes**

**This chapter takes place during WWI, during which German U-boats patrolled the seas around Britain and cut off food supplies by sinking merchant ships. February-June 1917 was the most dangerous time to travel to Britain as the campaign became even more brutal during those months. Cuba did indeed ship sugar to Britain during the war under the pretense that the ships were heading to Sweden**

**Cuba declared war on Germany on 8 April 1917**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N - Sorry I didn't upload a chapter yesterday! I was out all day and then realised I had missed the deadline for a pinch-hitting assignment I'd taken up for a fic exchange OTL The first fic I did for that exchange was also written on the day it was due in...I'm just a fail when it comes to deadlines, clearly XD**

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_14 July 2009, El Gran Teatro_

It was early evening, and the sun was hanging low in the sky, lengthening the shadows and cooling the streets of Havana. England and Cuba arrived at the theatre to find a long queue already snaking out of the building, filled with people talking and laughing, looking forward to the first foreign ballet production in the country for thirty years.

"Do we have to wait in this?" England asked, eyeing the long line of people apprehensively. Cuba laughed.

"Aren't you used to it?" he teased. "Queuing is something the English are famous for doing, you know." England rolled his eyes.

"Doesn't mean I enjoy it," he grumbled, and was surprised when Cuba didn't stop walking as they reached the end of the queue. "Hey, where are we going?"

"What would the world be coming to," Cuba replied airily, "if an anthropomorphic personification of a country didn't get special treatment in his own capital city?" He pushed his way past the people stood in the doorway, ignoring their irritated looks, and led England to the very front of the queue, flashing an ID card and his ticket at one of the men who moved to stop him. The man backed away hurriedly when he realised who Cuba was, gesturing towards the door into the theatre itself. Cuba flashed a smirk at England, who considered that he'd be more impressed if he couldn't do exactly the same thing in his own country. Nevertheless, he resisted the urge to raise an eyebrow at the other nation and instead merely followed him as Cuba led the way to their seats.

They were _good_ seats. Naturally. England sank back into the plush, red material and looked around, watching other people try to figure out where they were sitting and letting his eyes run over the white pillars around the edges of the circular room and the heavy crimson curtain hiding the stage from view. Then he turned to look at Cuba and was slightly startled to find Cuba already watching _him_.

"It's a nice place, huh?" Cuba asked, and England nodded. Cuba looked pleased and started talking about the theatre, but England wasn't really listening. He was too distracted by, well, _Cuba_; the way he sat, casually, completely at his ease and exuding confidence. He sat like a king, England thought. Not because of his posture – no king would ever slouch like that – but in the raw _power_ that emanated from him, giving off the impression that he owned the place. Or perhaps the impression he gave was that the theatre was only a tiny, insignificant part of _him_.

Then Cuba caught the way that England was looking at him, and his voice trailed off mid-sentence. Something flickered in the air between them, and it didn't go away when the lights dimmed and an atmospheric hush spread over the room.

And then the curtain rose, and England looked away, focusing on the stage and the dancers and the music, letting himself be swept up by the fluid motions of the dance.

However, even though the delicate costumes and the flittering, airy notes of the piano were beautiful enough to hold his attention, they weren't enough to lessen the tug at the back of England's mind, distracting him with a small, persistent niggling to turn and look at the man in the seat to his left. England could feel the heat radiating from Cuba as if he were nuclear, searing through the air, and he was sure that he could hear Cuba's breathing underneath the music. England wanted to breathe the air that Cuba breathed, inhale the exhale that must taste of sunlight and sugar and everything foreign and beautiful.

And then Cuba's hand slipped onto the armrest and settled itself over England's, stroking England's fingers gently as the first few haunting bars of Swan Lake drifted out over the audience. England didn't turn his head, but the heat grew hotter, and he felt himself shift subconsciously towards it, felt Cuba tighten his hold on his hand by the most miniscule amount. And then it was gone, and England mourned in the cold for a moment before Cuba surreptitiously slid his hand onto England's thigh, causing England's breath to hitch and his legs to slip ever so slightly further apart.

_Now_ he turned to look at Cuba, and he found himself trapped in Cuba's gaze, his brown eyes molten in the darkness, drawing him in and making him shiver as a thumb stroked firmly and _slowly_ along his thigh. There were promises in Cuba's eyes and desire on the surface of his skin, and England swallowed thickly and _forgot to breathe_...

When the curtain dropped and the lights turned on, the applause and the following sounds of people rising, stretching and starting to shuffle towards the exit were lost on England. Cuba's hand had subtly been reclaimed before it could be seen, and England wanted it _back_. He started as Cuba tapped him on the arm, and looked up to see that the other nation was already standing, quirking an eyebrow at him and looking amused.

"It's time to leave," he said, and England blushed a little, hurriedly getting to his feet as he realised that he'd got lost somewhere in the opening notes of Swan Lake and in memories of body heat.

As they stood, waiting for the crush of people all trying to leave at once to move, Cuba pressed himself closer to England from behind and leant forwards to speak lowly in his ear: "Come back to my place." A hand touched England's hip. "You can stay the night," Cuba murmured, and England could only nod.

The journey back to Cuba's house took far too long, and the feeling of their thighs pressed flush against each other in the back of the taxi wasn't enough, the lingering glances weren't _nearly_ enough, and it wasn't until Cuba had fumbled his key into the lock and opened the door that England felt free. He pushed Cuba into the wall of the hallway, grinding their bodies together and kissing him, touching him and demanding to know why Cuba had to be so fucking _gorgeous_ at such inappropriate times.

They made it to the bedroom somehow or other, and paused to impatiently tug and yank at clothing, leaving it to messily crease on the floor as Cuba pushed England down onto the mattress. England reached up and pulled him even closer, their panting breaths mingling together in the air and their hips rocking against each other, seeking the friction and slickness and _ahh_.

And then it was burning and rhythm and _want_; it was pleasure pressed against skin, fingers curled tightly in fistfuls of sheets; it was sharp noises with soft edges and fitting together and patterns traced on skin with searing mouths. It was Spanish dripping from Cuba's tongue and heat so deep that it _scorched_ England's body. It was green eyes like stardust and emeralds, and honeyed incoherent gasps falling from England's lips, growing sharper and louder as Cuba moved like _that_ and then the whole _world_ imploded and gravity _broke_ and the insides of England's eyelids crystallised into coloured glass...

And when Cuba came inside him, England held his hand so tightly that he didn't know if it was his pulse or Cuba's that beat in his wrist like the waves outside that crashed on the Caribbean shore.

* * *

**Notes**

**Yes, the Royal Ballet Company did perform in the Gran Teatro on the first night of their performance and Swan Lake was indeed part of their programme. And yet, somehow, this isn't even the extent of my obsessive research for this fic...OTL**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N - Warning! This chapter contains copious amounts of Conquistador!Spain and Empire!England. In the same room. Breathing the same air. It might even make up for the distinct lack of Cuba in this chapter.**

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_23 September 1817, Madrid_

Spending time with Spain was not one of England's favourite occupations, to say the least. Spending time with Spain _alone_, in his rival's capital no less, was even more unfavourable. However, England tried not to let his distaste show as he sat back in the antique chair and let an expression of bored disinterest settle over his features, subtly giving out an aura that said '_you are not worth my time_', while at the same time being complacent enough not to ruin the whole meeting. Treading the fine line between irritating Spain and inciting him was a skill that England had perfected to such a level that it could almost be called a work of art in itself. It was certainly very satisfying to see the _twitch_ in Spain's jaw when the other nation looked at him and to _not_ find a blade pressed to his throat a moment later.

Right now, Spain was sitting on the other side of an old, well-worn desk, leafing through the papers that England had given him and scanning the cursive letters. They were all in English, of course, but Spain had finally given in and learnt the language. It had become a necessity, he had said, which England had translated into '_you've become too much of a threat_'. He repressed a smirk at the thought, his lips betraying the merest hint of an upwards twitch.

"How much?" Spain's abrupt question brought England out of his reverie and he focused on the other nation, who was looking at him critically. Considering England's offer, England knew, although he was so far managing to hide his interest quite well.

"If you stop the slave trade in your territory," England said, his bored tone contrasting with Spain's sharp brusqueness, "then the British Empire will compensate you with £400,000." Spain tapped his fingers lightly on the desk, no hint of an expression betraying his thoughts.

"You're willing to pay that much?" Spain asked, tilting his head perhaps a degree to the side, his gaze intense and unwavering as he stared into England's eyes. England looked back haughtily, feeling the friction as their wills clashed against each other. "My, England, have you finally developed a conscience?" England shrugged elegantly.

"You could say that." His tone indicated that he was humouring Spain, and that Spain should be _grateful_ for it. And there was that little tick in Spain's jaw that meant he wanted to punch England in the face but couldn't. England lazily crossed one of his legs over the other, leaning his head back ever so slightly so that he could look down his nose at Spain as he made himself comfortable in the other nation's office, making it look as though _he_ owned the place. "The British Empire has decided that the slave trade is inhumane and unjust, and so we're merely using our influence to help the rest of the world come to the same conclusion." He leant one of his elbows on the armrest of the chair and propped his chin in his hand, feeling the softness of the white silk glove he was wearing. "And if we need to spend a little money, well." Another elegant shrug. "We can afford it."

Spain shot him a look of pure, yet _sophisticated_ hatred. It was the kind of hatred that dressed itself in fitted, black suits and slipped poison into expensive champagne, then turned up at funerals smiling a cold, tight smile of satisfaction at a job well done. But England was used to it, had grown to expect it, even, and so he didn't even bother to hide his amusement and instead curved his lips up and cocked an eyebrow _just so_.

The next minute, Spain wasn't even looking at him anymore, but had returned his attention to the documents on his desk as if they were far more worthy of his attention than the blond man sitting opposite him. England felt a faint jab of annoyance, but chose to ignore it.

"And this agreement covers all of my territory?" Spain asked distractedly as his eyes scanned the words on the papers.

"Of course," England replied. "All of it: Spain. Your colonies in the Americas. The Philippines." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Cuba." Spain's eyes flicked up to look at him at that, watching him closely through his eyelashes.

"I'm not sure I can do that," he said, tapping his fingers on the desk, a parody of thoughtfulness on his face. England knew him too well, however, and knew, therefore, that Spain had already made up his mind one way or the other. He was just trying to mess with England while he had the opportunity. "After all, think how much money my empire will lose, even with your _generous_ payment." England didn't respond, didn't let Spain goad him with the sarcasm dripping from his words. After letting the silence drag on for a moment too long, Spain sighed and leant back in his chair.

"Really, England, can't you do better than this?" he asked, and England arched an eyebrow high into his hairline. Was Spain trying to _bargain_ with him? "I think you're more responsible for this whole business than you'd like to admit. Let's take Cuba for example, shall we?" He smiled at England in a way that immediately put England on his guard, and the fact that he had mentioned Cuba...England didn't know what he thought of that, but it made him slightly nervous. He didn't let it show. "Do you know how many slaves there are on that island?" Spain carried on.

"No," England replied shortly. He thought of the boy in question – probably older than England had last seen him; Spain didn't like England visiting his territory, so it had been a while – and an image of long, dark hair and rebellious eyes swam into his mind. Cuba was at that awful, glorious age where childhood was almost entirely a thing of the past, and England remembered the last time he had pulled up to his shores, seeing Cuba waiting for him on the beach, grinning up at him with his usual dazzling smile.

England could almost call him beautiful.

He knew, though, that the only reason why Cuba looked happy to see him when he came was because he hated Spain, and Spain hated England. It was a friendship born of the sentiments of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'. But England didn't mind.

After all, wasn't the reason why he knew the shade of Cuba's eyes in the dark just because he had wanted to see the look of fury in Spain's eyes when he found out?

Spain brought his attention back when he continued speaking, eyeing England as he did so as if he knew what he was thinking.

"The answer is: a lot," he said, and England lazily uncrossed his legs, only to cross them again the other way around. "And _you_, of course, are the reason for that. You brought so many during the year when you held Havana. Why should _I_ be the one who has to clean up your mess?" England tried not to scowl, and instead merely sharpened the edges of his expression. Spain was watching him like a predator, and England did not intend to become the prey.

"If you don't want to have responsibilities over your colonies, perhaps you should give them the independence that so many of them are clamouring for," he said in a tone that would have sounded pleasant to ears that weren't listening for the dark undercurrent of malice. He tilted his head fractionally to the side in his palm. "If you didn't want Cuba back, you could have left him to the British Empire. We would have taken good care of him." He allowed himself a small smile as Spain's eyes narrowed to slits. "In fact," England carried on in a low voice, "if you don't want him anymore..."

"I thought this agreement was about you trying to impose your new-found morals of the rest on the world, not to try and steal away my colonies," Spain interrupted, his voice raised perhaps a decibel higher than he'd meant. England had to fight from letting his smile break into a laugh.

"We wouldn't dream of it," he said silkily, and marvelled at how slick the lie felt on his tongue. Spain threw another look of hatred at him before turning his eyes back to the documents on his desk, and England wondered if he'd gone too far. He reminded himself that the point of this meeting was to get Spain to _agree_ with him for once, although frankly, he wasn't all that hopeful that the outcome of the meeting would be anything like what he wanted. It would take a miracle before Spain listened to _England_ of all people, he thought.

So when Spain suddenly picked up a quill, dipped it into his inkwell and signed the bottom of the last and fanciest page, England's composure slipped and he couldn't help letting astonishment flit over his face. Spain glanced up and saw it, allowing himself a small smirk as England hurriedly wiped his face clean of emotion.

"I've decided to accept your offer," Spain practically purred, collecting the papers neatly into a pile, which he slid to one side of the desk, giving the distinct impression that he was making room for more important and pressing matters, already moving on from the issues of the treaty he had just signed. England resisted the urge to curl his fingers into fists.

"Good," he replied dismissively, as if he'd anticipated this all along. Spain wasn't fooled though; his earlier slip-up had shifted the balance of power, and England cursed himself internally. He did so _hate_ to lose these games to Spain. "We'll make sure that the money reaches you as soon as possible." Spain stood up, smiling at him icily as he did so.

"I hope it does," he replied, "because I'm afraid the Spanish empire won't be able to put any of these clauses into effect before we receive it." He smirked down at England viciously. "To make sure the economy doesn't suffer, you understand."

"Naturally," England drawled. He stood up slowly, never taking his eyes away from Spain, who walked past him, not bothering to look at him as he did so, and opened the door, gesturing for England to exit first. England narrowed his eyes.

"Be sure you don't forget about your colonies," he said quietly, pausing as he passed Spain in the doorway, green eyes burning into green. "Because I'll be making sure you stick to your word. Personally." Spain let the moment linger, and England wondered what colour Spain would turn if he wrapped his hands around his throat and _squeezed_...

"I'll be sure to remember you said so," Spain replied, and then England started walking down the corridor, head held high, and only feeling mild satisfaction when Spain had to hurry after him to catch him up.

* * *

**Notes**

**On the 23rd September 1817, an agreement was signed in Madrid where Spain promised to stop the slave trade in its empire in exchange for £400,000 paid out by the British Empire, who had recently outlawed the slave trade in its own empire. However, Spain went back on its word until Britain forced it to sign another agreement in 1835. An illegal slave trade carried on in Cuba, however, despite the fact that Britain sent ships to try and stop slaves being brought to the country from Africa.**

**One of the reasons why there were so many slaves in Cuba was because when the British Empire had briefly held control over Havana (there'll be a chapter on this so more detailed notes will come later!), it shipped a lot of slaves over there. Obviously this was before it outlawed the trade.**

**Lots of Spain's colonies in South America were rebelling at the time, and quite a few of them gained independence from the Spanish Empire in the first half of the nineteenth century.**

**(Also, yes, England is slyly using the 'royal we' in this part. If anyone called him on it, he'd probably say that it was because he was speaking for his brothers as well, but that's totally a lie. It's really because he's just that damn arrogant~)**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N - It's time for your daily dose of Cuba/England goodness! Just as important as any vitamin~ Also, even if you skip the notes at the end, make sure to look past them for something extra awesome!**

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_15 July 2009, El Malecón_

The day after the ballet company's first performance, England was unwillingly roused after only a few hours of sleep. Glancing at the clock through sleep-heavy eyes, he registered the time as not quite 6am and reached out to smack Cuba, who was currently trying to coax him out of bed.

"Do you even know what time it is?" England groaned, wishing he had the energy to shout and show his disapproval properly. As it was, he wasn't awake enough to grasp Cuba's Caribbean approach to Spanish, and so the only words he caught of the other nation's answer were 'early' and 'sunrise'. "I don't give a shit about the sunrise," he slurred, trying to bat Cuba away and curl up on the mattress again. Cuba sighed.

Then suddenly England found himself hoisted into two strong arms, which lifted him off the bed and set him upright on his feet on the floor. Cuba grinned at him in the dark. England glared muzzily in response.

"I hate morning people," he muttered, but resigned himself to an early start.

And so it was that barely forty minutes later, England found himself taking a walk with Cuba along the long stretch of the Malecón – a street along the coastline where a high wall kept the sea at bay on one side and a line of various buildings marked the edge of the city on the other.

As it was still ridiculously early (a fact that England made a point of complaining about every few minutes), there weren't any tourists cluttering up the walkway yet. It would have been almost silent if not for the waves breaking loudly against the wall down below, but that in itself was a rhythmic, peaceful sound that ebbed and flowed with the pattern of the waves. The only light came from the thin strip of daylight starting to edge its way over the horizon to the west, and from the stars that still faintly shone at their backs on the other side of the sky.

As they walked, talking as quietly as they could while still being loud enough to be heard over the sound of the sea, England felt almost as though he were still dreaming. He'd walked along this road before, of course, when he'd visited the city in the past, but he had never witnessed it so empty and silent, and it gave the dawn a surreal feeling of something that was at the same time both familiar and strange.

Strangest of all was England's urge to reach out and intertwine his fingers with the darker-skinned man walking by his side.

Stealing a surreptitious glance at Cuba, England noticed the way that the weak, pink-tinted sunlight framed the other nation's face, giving his skin a healthy glow and making his eyes glitter as they caught the light and deepen compellingly as they walked through patches of shadow. He noticed how long Cuba's eyelashes were, and how a dimple formed on his cheek when he smiled. Cuba had a beautiful smile – it was crooked, curving up on the right as if the muscles in his left cheek were too lazy to help out, but the asymmetry was somehow just so _Cuba_ and it showed his happiness so honestly and openly that no matter how many times Cuba turned that lopsided smile on him, it still had the power to make something in England's chest flutter at the sight.

It fluttered now as Cuba turned to smile at him, and England found himself smiling back, even though he had no idea what Cuba had said. He was still too tired to pay much attention, and the sound of the waves was lulling him into a state where he was barely awake, despite the cool sea breeze that was having absolutely no affect on his alertness, or lack thereof.

Cuba stopped walking as they passed by a palm tree, and England took another step before his tired brain caught up and told his legs to stop. He turned around to face Cuba in confusion and was surprised when he felt the gentle touch of Cuba's hand cupping his face, his thumb stroking softly along England's cheekbone. England leant into the touch, wishing that he could just press himself against Cuba's firm body, feel those warm arms encircle him and _sleep_.

Cuba murmured something to him, and, again, his words passed England by.

"You're going to have to speak more slowly," he muttered tiredly into Cuba's palm. "It's too early in the morning for me to understand your goddamn _seseo_ and words where you don't pronounce half the letters and your whole general dialect." Cuba laughed at him, leaning forwards to kiss him on the cheek.

"You're so cute when you're barely awake," he said, clearly enough now that England could make out his words. "I'd take pity on you and use English, but-" he nuzzled along England's jaw and pressed several soft kisses to his neck, "-I just love to hear you speak Spanish." England let his eyes flutter closed and sighed deeply, stepping closer to Cuba so that he could wrap his arms around him and rest his cheek on Cuba's shoulder, feeling Cuba's arms reach up to hold him close.

"Do you really like it?" he asked, a little surprised. "I'd always thought you must hate the way I speak your language since I speak it like Spain does." Cuba shrugged and carded his fingers gently and soothingly through England's hair. England melted into him.

"I don't mind Spain so much these days," Cuba said. "But I always liked the way you spoke. You don't sound that much like him anyway." England suddenly jerked his head up, startling Cuba, who hadn't expected the sudden movement.

"Oh God, is my accent really that strong?" England asked, a look of abject horror on his face. Cuba blinked, and then laughed loudly, and England suddenly realised their position and the fact that they were technically in public, even if there was no one around. He tried to subtly slip out of Cuba's arms, but they only tightened their hold on him, not allowing him to escape.

"You sound English," Cuba admitted, "but only subtly. Besides," he added somewhat smugly, "when you've been with me for a while, you start to pick up _my_ accent a little." England's expression couldn't have been too reassured, because Cuba grinned and kissed him on the lips. England squirmed a little, glancing around, paranoid that even though the street was empty, there could be early-risers lurking behind the dark window panes, watching them through the glass.

"I like it though," Cuba carried on abruptly. "The way you speak Spanish is...soft. It's nice. And it's cute when you don't quite manage to roll your Rs." England hit him, scowling at the teasing, but his reaction only seemed to amuse Cuba more. Smiling fondly, Cuba leant in for another kiss, but England nervously pulled away.

"Is it really OK to do that here?" he asked quietly, eyes flicking to check for passers-by, even though he knew that the street was empty.

"Of course it is," Cuba murmured back. "If anyone comes, just try to look like a girl." England swatted at him.

"Why am _I_ the girl?" he demanded. "Why can't _you_ be the woman here?" Cuba scoffed, but couldn't wipe the grin from his face as he did so.

"Because I'm far too obviously manly," he replied, and now it was England's turn to laugh at the overly-arrogant tone that Cuba had affected.

"Of course," he said, rolling his eyes, and this time it was him who closed the gap between their lips, letting their mouths explore each other for a moment before the paranoia grew too much and he ducked away again, blushing lightly at the thought of being caught in the act by a random stranger.

However, as they continued their walk along the Malecón, which was bathed in stronger sunlight now, the night being quickly washed out of the sky, he reached out and took Cuba's hand in his own, wondering vaguely why he felt like part of a couple, and then wondering why the thought that he might be felt so natural and _right_.

"By the way," he added suddenly, "Why exactly did you feel the need to drag me out here at such an ungodly hour of the morning?" He glanced at Cuba suspiciously, who looked as though he'd momentarily forgotten that they hadn't been outside together, clasping each others' hands, forever.

"Oh, that," he said, and that crooked smile tugged cheekily at the corner of his mouth. "Well it's hard work hanging out with you, you know, and you're _so_ much easier to deal with when you're still half asleep and down a few IQ points...or twenty." He laughed and wisely ran before England managed to process his words and hit him.

"Hey! Get back here, Cuba! What was _that_ supposed to mean?"

* * *

**Notes**

**This chapter probably gave away the fact that I have a massive hard-on for the Spanish language. (Wait, what do you mean you'd already figured that out?) So, I'll explain the differences in the accents.**

**'Seseo' is a term that refers to the Spanish accent that pronounces the letters C and Z in the same way as S, and it's most commonly used in South America and the Caribbean. In Spain, they generally use 'distinción' where they lisp the letters C and Z (and to some extent the letter D. Yes, that's right, they lisp their Ds, albeit in a different way - imagine the 'th' sound in 'the' and you've got how they pronounce it in Spain). Of course, there are different regional accents and dialects in all countries, but this rule works as a generalisation.**

**The Cuban dialect also tends to miss out letters, such as the letter D in some words (so 'condado' becomes 'condao') and they tend to not pronounce the letter S at the ends of words when pluralising (this can also be a feature of some Spanish accents too - as I said, regional accents and all that). Plus the fact that they'll use words in different ways and have different words for different things than the Spanish of Spain (think the difference between British and American English)**

**...and I also have a confession to make. I totally looked up the time the sun rose on the 15th July 2009 for this chapter. I know, I get obsessive over small details OTL But it's a good thing I did, actually, because I'd totally forgotten that countries further north get more daylight in summer but those further south don't. So if I'd based it on English time...well, that would have been way wrong AND ridiculously early (the sun rises here at like 4am in summer - big difference!).**

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**And Now the Promised Awesome**

**After I'd finished posting this fill on the kink meme, the requester drew fanart of this chapter (hence why I waited until now to share the link here)! I will attempt to link it here, but if I fail, there's a link on my LJ 'fanworks for my fics' page, and there's a link to that on my bio. Hopefully you won't need that though! **

**OK, take out the spaces and this is your link: http : / / zemmer . deviantart . com /# /d2wl00o**

**Make sure to leave her a comment telling her how awesome she is for drawing the only fanart ever to exist for this couple! XD**


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N - Sorry there was no update yesterday - I had to deal with some other stuff and didn't quite get chance to upload another chapter. But, but, but! There is now _another_ Cuba/England fic! It's called 'Sorrowful Happiness' and it's by EmilyXXSasu. I haven't read it yet (I'm going to as soon as I've uploaded this!) but although it's a oneshot it's really long and it's _Cuba/England_ so you should all go check it out if you want to see more of this pairing!**

* * *

_13 August 1762, Havana_

England turned from the window as the boy entered the room. The first thing he noticed, with nothing more than a faint twinge of guilt, was that Cuba's skin was bruised and his face was cut. England might have thought that he was too young to have been involved in the fighting, but that would have been hypocritical of him, considering his own blood-drenched childhood.

"Do you need any medical attention?" he asked, allowing the faintest hint of concern into his voice. Cuba glared at him as if he wanted him to drop dead. He probably did, England considered vaguely.

When it became clear that Cuba wasn't going to reply, England sighed and shifted his gaze to look out of the window again. He looked out over the city that had finally surrendered to him. It had taken the British forces a good two months to reach this point, but it had been worth it. Keeping an eye on Cuba's reflection in the glass, England smirked to himself as he thought of the expression Spain's face would adopt when he learnt that his most important trading port belonged to the British Empire now. Oh, if only he could tell Spain personally...

"What do you think you're smiling at?" The growl from behind him made England turn, surprised, to see Cuba practically snarling in rage, drawing himself to his full height. He was impressively tall for a fifteen-year-old, England thought as he briefly mourned his own short stature.

"I'm wondering how your master will take the news that his colony belongs to me now," he said, just to see how Cuba would react to being treated like a piece of property, just because he _could_. He wasn't all that surprised when Cuba tried to attack him, letting forth an incoherent scream of rage as he charged at England, pulling back a fist to hit him with. He gasped when England dodged him easily and tripped him, sending him sprawling to the ground. England tutted, unimpressed.

"You'll have to do better than that, kid," he said, and suddenly felt a lot older than his own twenty years. Cuba looked up at him with hatred burning in his eyesHav, but he didn't try to attack England again as he climbed to his feet. England almost felt proud of him for not trying the same stupid tactic twice. He _liked_ fast learners.

"Do you think this is some kind of game?" Cuba hissed, and England frowned slightly as he noticed that the cut on Cuba's face had opened and blood was tricking down his cheek. "Who are you to invade my country, kill my people and act like it's just another normal day for you? You're so fucking arrogant! Don't you dare think I surrendered because I'm scared of you – I just don't want any more of my people to die for nothing." He was trembling in anger and looked as though he were fighting back tears. "I didn't think you were like Spain, England, but you're _just like him_!" England winced a little at that, but didn't let it anger him as he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, shed his gloves – they were new and he didn't want to get them dirty – and approached the boy.

"So angry," he murmured, and Cuba tensed as he took the younger nation's chin in his hand, gently wiping the blood off his face. Cuba stared at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, refusing to allow his muscles to relax. He almost reminded England of himself when he was younger. _But not as broken_, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"Did you expect me not to be angry?" Cuba asked, voice hard and disbelieving. England examined the dark stain on his handkerchief and wondered if he'd have to make a new one. Blood was _so_ hard to wash out when it stained.

"Oh no, I completely understand the way you feel," England replied, threading his hand through Cuba's hair absentmindedly, knowing that it wouldn't do a speck of good to try and soothe the child, but trying anyway.

"Of course you don't," Cuba immediately spat, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. "You're an _empire_. I _know_ your type! You think you're better than the rest of us because you have all the power, but you're _wrong_. One day you'll fall – _all_ of you – and _then_ you'll understand what it is to not own the world!" England yanked sharply at the boy's hair, unintentionally, as if some sort of reflex had been triggered, and Cuba gasped hoarsely at the pain. He started to reach up a hand to remove England's fingers from their iron grip in his dark locks, but then he must have seen something deep in England's eyes, because he stopped immediately, and for the first time that England could remember, he looked frightened.

"You're wrong, sweetheart," England murmured, forcibly prying his grip open and breathing deeply to relax the muscles in his hand so that he could move it down to stroke along Cuba's cheek. Whether the boy shivered at his touch or at his tone, he wasn't sure. "On all counts, I'm afraid." He suddenly pulled Cuba close, holding him against his body in what could have been a loving embrace.

"Would you like to know a secret?" he whispered into Cuba's ear. A series of short, shallow breaths against his shoulder was all the answer he received. "I used to be like you," England continued in a dreamy voice, not needing verbal confirmation that Cuba was listening. He probably wouldn't have heard it if it had been given. "I used to be _more_ of a victim than you. I think _you're_ the one who doesn't truly understand what it is to live in the gutter of the world." He paused to place a tiny kiss to Cuba's forehead. He could never help but try to comfort frightened children.

"Did Spain ever lock you in the darkness?" he breathed, and it was like the supply of emotion had been cut off from his voice because his words were hollow, dead things. "Did he ever hack you into little pieces just to teach you what his word for 'death' was?" Cuba gave a muffled sob against his shoulder, and England shushed him, rubbing his back gently through his shirt.

"Everyone in this world is either weak or strong," he said, louder suddenly, using his best teacher voice, the one he used when America was falling asleep in his lessons. Somehow, though, it sounded off to his ears, as if the soul had been sucked out of it. "The world is split into the invaders and the invaded. You have to understand, Cuba, that I can't go back to where I was before. I have to keep on clawing my way up, past France, past Spain, right all the way up until I _own the world_. It's the only way I can ever guarantee my peoples' safety." Cuba's hands curled around the fabric of his shirt, and England wondered faintly if he was trying to comfort him or trying to draw out comfort for himself. "Do you understand?" he asked softly.

Cuba finally, hesitantly, pulled his face out of England's chest, and when he looked up at him, his cheeks were wet with tears. It almost broke England's heart when he reached a trembling hand to card his shaking fingers as best he could through England's hair. He wasn't angry anymore, but somehow he seemed so much more afraid than he had been when England's men were raining destruction down upon his city.

"It's all right," Cuba whispered, and England realised with a shock that no one had ever told him that before.

"You don't need to look so scared," he said, gently removing Cuba's hand, because Cuba was the frightened child who needed comforting, not him. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not anymore." He took a step back and moved into another moment; a moment where he was calm and composed and faintly exasperated at the look the younger boy was giving him. What, did he think that England needed _pity_?

"I'm going to keep you in my possession until I can arrange a treaty with Spain," he said, all business now, but Cuba's expression didn't change. England ignored it. "If he gives me what I really want, I'll give you back to him. But until then, I expect you to be a good boy and not cause trouble for me, understand?" Cuba nodded slowly, silently, and England pulled his gloves back on before he forgot them and left them in the room.

As he ushered the boy out and handed him over to the waiting guards, ordering them to take him to a doctor for a physical examination, just in case, he thought again of Spain's furious face on finding out that Havana was no longer his. The image brought a smile to his face as he strolled along the corridor, as did the memory of Cuba, fierce and young and beautiful, losing every battle but never being tamed.

He wondered if one day it would be Cuba who would be defeating Spain.

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**Notes**

**The British Empire first attacked Havana on the 6th June 1762, with the city surrendering on the 13th August (I think. Another source gave me the 11th August, so the one I chose might be wrong). They only held it for ten months before returning it to Spain in exchange for control over Florida. Havana was an important city to the Spanish Empire because in order to keep their merchant ships safe from pirates, all of the empire's trading ships would go through Havana and then travel in groups on to Spain.**

**Also, England's childhood? Do I even have to say anything? It's got to have been rough fighting off invasion after invasion after Viking raid after invasion...not to mention that a lot of my own personal head!canon for England's childhood is pretty grim (one day I will write a Norman Conquest fic and it will scar you all for life. Yes.)**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N - Hi again, guys~ Ready for some more America in your daily dose of Cuba/England?**

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_15 July 2009, Hotel Inglaterra_

It was late afternoon, and England had been sitting in his hotel room staring at his mobile phone for fifteen minutes straight now, biting his lip, hand hovering over the call button. The screen had turned off a long time ago, but England knew that once he pressed the button, America's name would appear on the screen, selected in his contact list. He wondered if it said something about him as a person that he had never hesitated to lead his soldiers into battle, but it was taking him a considerable amount of time to get up the nerve to make one single phone call.

Earlier, after the sun had risen above the horizon, Cuba had walked England back to the hotel, accompanying him all the way to his hotel room before leaving to go to work. England had promptly gone back to bed, and it was only after he had woken up at a reasonable hour that he had started to suspect that the real reason why Cuba had woken him so early was so that they could spend some time together before he buried himself in paperwork. He had also given England a kiss goodbye, and the easy familiarity of the gesture played on England's mind, making him wonder not for the first time about the nature of their relationship.

He had spent the rest of the day hanging around with a group from the ballet company as they explored the city. None of them knew who he was, of course, but somehow the rumour had got round that he was a friend of the director of the company, which England played up to because it was so much easier than being bombarded with questions about the past, many of which he knew he wouldn't be able to answer. Honestly, people seemed to think that just because he'd been around for two thousand years he'd known everyone and been everywhere, and he swore that if one more person asked him what it was like to be immortal, he would show that unfortunate soul exactly what it _wasn't_ like...

But all that had been avoided, and so now here he was, practically alone in the hotel as the company had already left for the Gran Teatro to prepare for tonight's performance. England stared at the phone in his hand and sighed. He wasn't even sure why he was putting himself through this. He didn't _need_ to speak to America. He just, well.

He just couldn't get the look in Cuba's eyes after their quick kiss goodbye out of his head.

England pressed the call button and prayed that he wasn't inadvertently starting the world's first nuclear war.

"Hey, England!" America said as he answered the phone, but his chirpy mood did little to ease the butterflies in England's stomach. "'Sup?"

"Hi," England replied, and hoped he didn't sound too nervous. "Um, you're not busy are you?"

"Of course not," America said. "I'm never too busy to talk to you!" It would have been sweet if England hadn't known that America was probably just using him as an excuse to procrastinate on whatever he should be doing right now.

"OK. Well, I sort of, um..." England tried to pull himself together enough to stutter out a sentence. "I sort of wanted to ask you a question."

"Shoot," America said, and if he suspected what England was going to ask, his tone didn't give anything away.

"Hypothetically speaking," England started slowly, "what would you do if I, uh, dated a Communist?" There was a beat of silence and England _felt_ himself start to sweat.

"If you did that," America finally replied, and his cheerful tone was still intact, even if it had taken on a more dangerous edge, "then, hypothetically speaking, I would nuke said Communist so fucking hard that his whole goddamn island would sink to the bottom of the ocean." England _heard_ the smile at the end of that sentence. It was a smile with sharp edges.

"I see," he replied, and paused, mind working quickly to try and save the situation. It turned out that he didn't have time to remedy it, however, as America continued speaking.

"Now I'd like to ask _you_ a question, England," he said, and England almost wished that he would _sound_ angry, because his resolutely cheerful attitude was positively terrifying.

"Go ahead," he invited, dreading America's next words and wondering if he had doomed the whole world.

"What are you doing in Cuba, England?" And ah, there it was: the sharp, almost threatening tone that both relieved England and gave him the mental image of America standing with his phone pressed to his ear with one hand and the index finger of his other hovering over a big, red and thoroughly ominous button.

"You already know what I'm doing here." Was it really America who was making England _squirm_ like this? What was the world _coming_ to? "The Royal Ballet Company-"

"Yes, I know your excuse, but what are you _really_ doing there?" England closed his eyes and tried to think happy thoughts.

"I wanted to see him," he said quietly, staring unseeingly out of the window. There was a short pause and then a rush of static over the phone as America sighed.

"Are the two of you already in a relationship?" he asked, and it sounded slightly less like an interrogation now, but only slightly.

"No," England said, lying down on the bed, legs still dangling off the edge from where he'd been sitting. "I haven't even discussed this with him. I just..." America waited for him to continue. "He makes me happy, America," England finally murmured.

"Don't say that," America groaned. "You know I can't argue with that!" He seemed to be struggling with himself for a minute, but then he sighed again as he came to some sort of conclusion. "OK, look, I'm prepared to compromise. How about this? I promise not to blow him up if the two of you hook up, but only on the condition that he treats you right. Oh, and that the two of you use protection, because I don't want you catching something gross like Communism." England spluttered, face heating up.

"Communism isn't an STD, America!" he managed to say.

"How do you know?" America shot back. He paused as if suddenly realising something. "Wait, you're not already sleeping with him, are you?"

"Well..."

"You _are_, aren't you? And you didn't _tell_ me? How long has this been going on for?" England held the phone a little way away from his ear to distance himself from the outrage coming out of the device.

"You know, I think I've kept you from your work for long enough, America," he said hastily, deciding that it was probably wise to end the conversation before America changed his mind about nuking Cuba into the seabed. "I'll talk to you soon. Have fun! And remember that weapons of mass destruction are never the answer!" He hung up on America's incoherent rage and sighed.

All in all, that had gone a lot better than he'd thought it would.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N - Welcome to the last flashback chapter in this fic, in which we're going way back to the first time Cuba and England ever met. Kid!Cuba and Pirate!England, in fact. There is also Spain. Oh, and please note that about 90% of what England says in this chapter in relation to history is utter bollocks, so be sure to read the history lesson at the end! And I say this is the last flashback chapter because the chapter I post after this one will be the last in the fic. The end is in sight now, guys.**

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_23 October 1588, Havana_

England grunted with pain as his face hit the ground. Gritting his teeth, he managed with some difficulty to bring himself up onto his knees, despite the fact that his hands were tied together behind his back, the rope chafing his wrists as he moved. Spain loomed over him, looking almost maniacally victorious at having captured him. England tried to struggle to his feet in an attempt to lessen the unequal distribution of power in the scene, but Spain casually pressed a foot down on his shoulder, _hard_, keeping England on his knees in a parody of servitude.

"Well, well," Spain said, removing his foot. England didn't bother trying to stand again, choosing instead to glare up at the other nation as venomously as he could. "It seems that it really is impossible to civilise barbarians after all. Although I have to admit that I never thought you'd stoop as low as _piracy_. Are you really that desperate, England?" England wished he could wipe the condescending sneer off Spain's face. Preferably by means of unnecessary violence.

"Anything to piss you off," he replied in Portuguese, and felt a cheap thrill when Spain's eyes narrowed at the sound of his brother's language.

"Clearly," Spain drawled, sticking with his native tongue and refusing to take the bait, merely making the conversation bilingual instead of giving England any satisfaction at knowing he was winding him up. "I suppose I should expect nothing more from such an impudent _child_." England bristled slightly at that. He was eighteen, _finally_, after what seemed like an endless childhood, and he'd be damned if the rest of the world didn't acknowledge the fact that he was finally big enough – _strong_ enough – to make a name for himself.

"An impudent child who sunk your 'invincible' armada," he said in a dangerously low voice. He anticipated the blow that he received in response, but couldn't dodge, bound and on his knees as he was, and so he couldn't prevent the wind from being knocked out of him as Spain's boot ploughed into his stomach. Spain watched indifferently as he choked and fought to regain his breath.

"I think you're forgetting who you're dealing with, _boy_," he said coldly. "And you seem to have forgotten your place. Perhaps you're no longer nothing but an island savage, but you have a very long way to go before you can even _dream_ of being my equal. In fact," he continued, and now a smirk pulled at his lips, "your only value lies in how very attached to you your queen seems to be. I wonder what she'll be willing to trade in exchange for your safe return." England looked at him, wide-eyed, only just realising how seriously his carelessness could affect his country. Spain was right; he had been overconfident in attacking merchant ships so close to Havana. But there were so _many_ of them here and they had seemed like easy targets...

As Spain stalked away, he paused in the doorway and shot one last look at England, regarding him in same way that he might watch a particularly messy execution. "Oh, and England, here's some advice: if you really must engage in something as pathetic as piracy, at least make sure you're _good_ at it first." Then he swept out of the room, locking the door behind him with an ominous-sounding _click_.

As soon as he was left alone, England's mind switched track from trying to decide which curse he should place on Spain to make him suffer most to trying to figure out how he was going to escape. Struggling to his feet, he looked around the room. It was clearly unused, with the only furniture being an old, empty desk and a chair. The rest of the room was dismal and dull with the only light being that which filtered in through the two large windows, cast by the moon and the lanterns on the street below. England bit his lip. He needed something sharp to cut through the ropes restraining his hands, but there didn't seem to be anything of that description around.

Just as England was searching through the drawers of the desk – all empty – he heard a quiet noise from behind him and whirled around. A second door in the room that he had checked and determined to be locked now appeared to have been _unlocked_ as it was slowly opening. England tensed, waiting to see who would appear, only to be surprised when a child stepped calmly into the room, eyeing him curiously.

The child was a stranger to England. He had dark hair that fell to reach his shoulders, but there was no question of his gender; there was a certain masculinity to the set of his features, even at this young age (which England estimated to be around twelve), and in any case he was wearing trousers and England didn't think that the Spanish Catholics would take too kindly to a girl dressing in such a way. The thing that struck England most, however, was the familiar prickle in the back of his mind telling him that this was no ordinary boy. This child was one of _his_ kind. He was a nation.

England sized up the child and had to admit that he was impressed that not a hint of fear showed in those wide brown eyes, despite the fact that England knew he must look quite intimidating. His fight against the Spanish sailors on the merchant ship, and then against Spain and his men when they had happened to sail past and realised that one of their ships was under attack, had left him with ripped clothes, dotted with cuts and bruises, and with his hair tousled into a complete state. But even the dried blood staining his skin and clothing didn't seem to faze the other boy.

"You're like me," the child finally said. He used Spain's mother tongue, which didn't surprise England in the slightest, but there was something different in the way he spoke; something foreign and exotic.

"I am," England replied. "My name is England. And you're Cuba, aren't you?" The boy nodded. He didn't show any sort of recognition at hearing England's name, which gave England hope that if he could get this boy to trust him, he might have just found his ticket out of this place.

"They told me you were a pirate," Cuba said accusingly, although he didn't seem too concerned about whether England really was one. He had probably heard too many romanticised accounts of piracy to truly understand the danger he would be in if he met one, England considered. Well, that was fine. England had always been a good story-teller...

"They told you the truth," he said, and Cuba's eyes widened. He looked awed at meeting a real-life pirate, and perhaps a little bit impressed.

"So are you really rich then?" he asked excitedly. "Do you have lots of hidden treasure?" He faltered as England adopted a sombre expression and shook his head sadly.

"All the treasure I've ever gathered has gone straight to my queen," he replied, and this was where the story began. "She's a kind ruler, but her people are very poor, so she sends out pirates like me to steal gold, silk and spices from merchant ships bound for richer countries like Spain. You see, Spain's people are all so rich that they live in huge castles and have slaves to do all their work for them, so they never have to want anything. They don't need any more money, but they've grown so greedy that they can never be satisfied." He paused to evaluate Cuba's expression. The young boy was wide-eyed and enthralled, swallowing every single lie that rolled smoothly off England's tongue. Good.

"But what about your people?" Cuba asked. "Can't you ask Spain to give you some money if he doesn't need all of his?" His naivety was positively adorable, England thought, but he didn't break character, fitting a pained expression over his features.

"Oh, Spain won't give any money to me," he said bitterly. "He never cared that my people were starving to death because they couldn't afford to buy food. Not even when his king was married to my last queen. She thought he loved her and that he would help her, but instead he left to conquer other lands and take their wealth for himself. He never gave her a single thing, and her people suffered because of it." He fell silent for a moment for dramatic effect. "Eventually she died of a broken heart, leaving the kingdom to her younger sister – my current queen."

"That's horrible!" Cuba exclaimed. "Why would he marry her if he didn't love her?"

"Because he wanted to control my country," England replied, and the hatred in his voice was genuine now. After all, the best stories were based on true events. "After the new queen ascended to the throne, he wanted to marry her too in order to stay King of England, but she was too smart for him and didn't fall into the same trap as her sister. Since then, I've supported the other countries under Spain's rule who are also suffering and want to rebel, and so Spain has become my enemy. He even tried to invade my country a few months ago." Cuba gasped, clinging onto the door handle with one hand and raising the other to cover his mouth.

"What happened?" he urged, and England fought to keep the victorious smile off his face.

"I live on an island, just like you," he continued, "although I'm not alone – I share it with two of my brothers. Spain sent an armada of a thousand ships to overthrow my ruler and make me his again. I didn't have that many sailors and my people were weak from hunger, but it isn't the English way to surrender, so we set sail and fought." The smirk finally found its way onto England's lips, and this time he didn't try to suppress it. "We sank every single Spanish ship in the fleet. It was truly the greatest naval battle ever fought!" England almost wished that Spain was here to see the way his colony drank up this web of exaggerations and blatant lies without a single iota of doubt.

"Wow," Cuba breathed. "You're so cool, England! Spain never told me about that!" England toned his smirk down into a small, modest smile.

"Thank you," he said graciously. "I'm glad you think so. I'm sure Spain didn't tell you because he didn't want you to know that he lost a battle against a weaker and poorer country than himself. But, unfortunately, even though we won the battle, my people were still so poor that I had to go out and steal treasure from Spain's ships. And now that he's captured me, they're going to suffer even more." Cuba finally moved away from the doorway and stepped further into the spider's web that England had intricately spun for him.

"Why will they suffer?" he asked, a tremor in his voice. England almost felt guilty for tricking him like this; he was only a child after all. But, then again, it was necessary that he be young. No one hungered for a happy ending in quite the same way as a child who was told only half of a fairytale.

"Because Spain is going to use me to bargain with my queen," he replied. "He's going to force her to marry his king by threatening to hurt me. I'm not scared," he added as Cuba's eyes widened in horror, "but I know that if I don't escape from Spain and find a way back to my country, then my people will become victims of Spain's greed and cruelty again." Cuba suddenly grabbed him by the arm and began tugging him urgently towards the door.

"I can get you out of here!" he said. "I know how to get past the guards and all the way down to the sea. You can sneak onto one of the ships and escape!" England somehow managed to continue playing the martyr, adopting an expression of surprised gratitude.

"You would really do that for me?" he asked, and Cuba nodded so much that his hair flew into his face. "Thank you so much," England said as Cuba pushed it back behind his ears. "I'll make sure to repay you for your kindness one day."

"You don't have to do that," Cuba hastily insisted, and he started to pull at the rope binding England's wrists, picking the knots free and letting the rope drop to the floor before pulling at England again, leading the way out through the unguarded door. In the next room he paused, turning his liquid brown eyes on England with an innocence that only children can possess. "If you really want to say thank you," he said quietly, "then promise me that you'll live happily ever after." England smiled at him fondly, feeling genuine warmth at Cuba's words.

"I promise," he said, and impulsively bent down to kiss Cuba on the forehead. "And one day," he whispered, smiling at the beautiful blushing boy, "I'll come back, and I'll bring you a happy ending too." Shyly, hesitantly, Cuba rose onto his tip-toes and returned the kiss, pressing his lips softly to England's cheek.

"I'll look forward to it," he said softly. "To the day when we can live our happily ever after together."

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**Notes**

**OK, there are a lot of notes for this chapter...but try to pay attention, class!**

**First off, there was quite a bit of piracy around Havana, due to the fact that the merchant ships gathered there before sailing to Spain. Also, as a general overview of the political situation of the time, the Spanish Empire was in its golden age, whereas the British Empire barely existed yet. The Anglo-Spanish war was going on, although it's worth pointing out that neither country ever actually declared war at this time - the period 1585-1604 was rife with confrontations between Spain and England, however.**

**England's little story has some facts in it as well as absolutely blatant lies. The facts are that Elizabeth I was Queen of England at the time, and her elder sister Mary (you may know her as Bloody Mary), who had ruled previously, had indeed been married to King Philip II of Spain, who considered the marriage as completely political and spent a lot of time basically avoiding Mary by never visiting the country. After her death, Philip proposed to Elizabeth, not wanting to be stripped of his title of King of England, but she turned him down. **

**The main problem seems to have been that Spain was Catholic (Mary had been fiercely Catholic), but Elizabeth was Protestant and as such she promised support to the Protestants in the Spanish Netherlands, making an enemy out of Spain. England also tried to help Portugal take back their independence after the Iberian Union in 1580, further pissing off the Spaniards (and giving me reasons to ship Portugal/England and Netherlands/England~ Not that I _need_ reasons, you understand, but they help when someone asks me to explain why I ship them and 'they're not' isn't considered to be enough).**

**England's account of the Spanish Armada is hilariously exaggerated. The armada was only comprised of 130 ships, whereas the English fleet sent to combat it actually outnumbered it by 70 ships. The Spanish fleet admittedly did have twice the firepower, though. It's true that the English fleet attacked the armada and forced them to retreat, but what caused the real damage to the Spanish ships was stormy weather as they were sailing around Ireland, accounting for the vast majority of their casualties. The armada set sail at the end of May in 1588, so this part is set only a few months after that incident.**

**When England talks about Spain's vast wealth and England's poverty, he is also grossly exaggerating, mainly because England's whole fairy story was inspired by the Robin Hood folktales (which have been around since at least the 15th century and so England could well have based his story on them). Oh, Cuba. This is why you should never trust a pirate.**

**And that's it for today! There'll be a test on this later, so make sure you study hard! Class dismissed~**


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N - Here we are, guys. The last chapter! It's the longest one yet and about three quarters of it is sex XD Yeah, the vast majority of this is an explicit lemon, so if you're not so into that then you can skip it and just read the last quarter or so of the fic...really, I think the length of this says something about me as a person, but I don't quite want to face up to whatever that is yet, so please, enjoy~**

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_15 July 2009, Hotel Inglaterra_

After England had hung up the phone, he had barely had time to squeeze in a quick shower before there was a knock at the door. Clad only in a loose t-shirt and a pair of boxers, there was a brief panic as he located some trousers, and then he rushed to open the door only to find Cuba leaning against the wall outside. He had clearly gone home from the office before coming here as he was dressed in casual clothes. _Nice_ casual clothes, England added mentally as his eyes slid over the form-fitting jeans and the dark red shirt, the top few buttons of which were undone.

"You look good," he said, and was rewarded with a smile.

"And you look wet," Cuba remarked, reaching out to run a hand through England's still damp hair as he entered the room. England shut the door behind him. "Couldn't you have waited until I got here before you took a shower? I could have joined you." The way his eyes slid along the contours of England's body before lazily tracing a path up to meet his gaze made England suppress a shiver, unconsciously biting his lip.

"We can always take another shower later," he said, feeling heat start to pool in his stomach at the thought of them standing together under the water, bodies pressed so close that he could feel _everything_...

The fantasy was driven away by Cuba's _real_ touch as he lightly brushed a finger down England's cheek, stepping ever so slightly closer.

"But you're already so clean," he murmured. "Wouldn't that be a waste of water?" His thumb stroked along England's bottom lip, and England flicked out his tongue to meet it, eyes never leaving Cuba's magnetic gaze.

"Not if you make a mess of me first," he breathed, and then abruptly pushed Cuba back against the wall. Cuba pulled England after him, and their combined momentum crushed their bodies together, Cuba wrapping his arms tightly around England to hold him there as the shorter nation pulled Cuba's head down, meshing their lips into a clumsy kiss that soon smoothed out as silken lips shaped to fit each others' mouths and hungrily devoured each other.

England made short work of the buttons on Cuba's shirt before practically ripping it off his body, flinging it to one side and then moulding his hands to Cuba's torso, trying to touch all of the bare skin on display. The feel of well-toned muscles underneath Cuba's tanned flesh was so breathtakingly masculine and _perfect_ that England found himself already half hard. He ground into Cuba's hip, and the taller nation moaned and reached down to squeeze England's buttocks, encouraging him to rut against Cuba as their kiss became sloppy and distracted – more teeth than tongue now – and England felt Cuba's own erection brush against his thigh.

Then England managed to find a shred of self-control and clung onto it for long enough to still his hips and tug his bottom lip free from Cuba's teeth. He pressed open-mouthed kisses down Cuba's neck and bit him at the juncture between neck and shoulder just to hear him gasp. He reached for Cuba's belt to find the other nation's hands already there, and England laughed breathily against Cuba's shoulder.

"Somebody's eager," he said, and Cuba leant forwards to run a hot tongue over the shell of his ear. There was the sound of a zip being pulled down.

"I'm just being helpful," Cuba replied, grinning as he guided England's hand to wrap around his cock. England kissed the smile off his face and started to move his hand up and down Cuba's length, smoothly and teasingly slowly, feeling his own breath catch at the sounds Cuba made into his mouth.

England broke the kiss so that he could watch Cuba's flushed cheeks and half-lidded eyes. He stroked a thumb over the head of Cuba's cock and felt him shudder, his full lips parting slightly as he gasped sharply.

"God, you're beautiful," England said breathlessly, almost without meaning to. He slowed the movements of his hand even more, and Cuba thrust his hips forwards desperately.

"And you," he panted, "are a fucking tease who's wearing far too many clothes." He reached for England's trousers, and England sighed in relief as his own erection was finally freed from its constraints. Cuba put a hand on the small of his back, pulling him closer. Both nations groaned as their cocks rubbed against each other, and then Cuba had his hand around both of them, stroking them to a faster rhythm. England's own hand stilled for a beat, caught up in the pleasure as he involuntarily twitched his hips a couple of times, and then he joined Cuba, the brush of their fingers somehow every part as intimate as being pressed against each other in such a way.

It was Cuba who stopped them before he was swept too far too early, and he pushed England's hand away, grabbing at the bottom of England's t-shirt and pulling it unceremoniously over the shorter nation's head. He then kicked off his shoes and tugged his socks off as England let his own trousers and underwear fall to the floor, stepping out of them as Cuba hurried to do the same. England peppered his jaw with kisses as he pulled him towards the bed, before pushing at his shoulder gently, eyes smouldering with lust.

"Lie down," he said lowly, and Cuba obeyed without a second thought. England climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, and Cuba ran his hands up and down the smaller nation's sides; over the slim waist and jutting hip bones, not pausing as England leant forwards, resting his weight on one hand and reaching the other to open a drawer in the bedside table, rooting around and locating a bottle of lubricant. As he sat back up, Cuba circled a finger around his nipple before pinching it lightly, drawing a hiss from England's lips. He refused the bottle as England tried to give it to him, however.

"You do it," he said, voice rough with lust, and England blinked at him, not quite understanding. "I want to watch you finger yourself," Cuba expanded, brushing England's nipple again, and England shivered, both at the touch and Cuba's words.

"How lazy," he said, a little breathlessly as Cuba's hands thoroughly mapped out his thighs. "Making me do all the work." Cuba smirked, and England might have rolled his eyes if he had been less turned on. Instead, he popped the cap off the bottle and coated his fingers liberally in lube. Some of it dripped onto his thigh, and Cuba moved his hand up to rub it in slick circles with his thumb. England bit back a moan.

He gave up on restraint, however, as he lowered his hand, tracing his thumb lightly over his hip and down over the curve of his buttocks. Cuba took the bottle of lube from his unresisting hand to place it on the bed as England gently angled a finger at his entrance. He gasped as he pressed it inside; the lube was cool, but in no way unpleasantly so, and Cuba's hands slid over his hips, holding him in place. England pushed the finger all the way into himself easily before slipping it out almost all the way. He pressed in again with more force and bit his lip lightly at the strange yet familiar feeling.

"Look at me," Cuba urged, and England obeyed, unembarrassed to let Cuba see the pleasure in his eyes as he inserted a second finger, back arching slightly as he crooked the fingers inside himself, scissoring them, moving them in and out of his body with obscene slick noises that made Cuba's fingers tighten on his hips. A third finger made England gasp, and his eyes fluttered closed, a long, low moan drawn from his lips. Cuba's breathing noticeably hitched at this, and suddenly one of his hands closed around England's.

England's eyes shot open as Cuba gripped his wrist firmly and took control, fucking England with the shorter nation's own fingers.

"Fuck," England gasped. "Fuck, Cuba..._ah_..." Cuba licked his lips and grinned up at him, continuing to thrust England's pliant fingers in and out of his body.

"You were being too slow," he said, and England felt his muscles flutter and contract around the intrusion, felt his own tight heat pressing all around his slim fingers. "I want you to ride me," Cuba moaned, and he suddenly pulled England's fingers out of his body, resulting in a small whine from England at the abrupt emptiness he felt. "Come on, baby," Cuba urged, gripping England's hips again. "Fuck yourself on my cock." England shivered, breathing heavily, and reached for the bottle of lube, pouring the substance onto his hand before coating it over Cuba's cock in quick, desperate movements. Cuba tried to shallowly thrust up into his hands, but England's knees were resting on the bed so that his thighs pressed into Cuba's hips, keeping him in place.

"Patience," England murmured, opening his legs slightly wider and positioning Cuba's cock so that the head pressed against his entrance. He gave a breathy moan as the beads of precum smeared across his skin, already slick from the lube. Then Cuba tugged at his hips with an impatient noise and England pressed down, gasping as Cuba's full length slid smoothly and slickly into him, filling him and stretching him with a delicious burn that was far more pleasure than pain. England rocked his hips slightly, closing his eyes and leaning back, his hands resting on Cuba's thighs. Cuba hummed approvingly beneath him as England rocked his hips again, just taking a moment to adjust and wrap his head around the dizzying heat that was pulsing in bullets through his veins.

"Does that feel good?" Cuba asked huskily. He wet his lips with his tongue. "Having me inside you?" England's fingers twitched on his thighs.

"Yes," he gasped honestly. "Yes, I...mm." He gave up on coherency and just moaned as Cuba pressed his hips up slightly, trying to fill him even more as if he couldn't be far enough inside England's body.

After trying to catch his breath and failing, England shifted his weight, moving his hands so that he was no longer leaning on Cuba. From this angle he could look directly into Cuba's eyes, the brown irises darkened with pleasure.

"Move," Cuba moaned. "_Move_, England!"

England obeyed, lifting his hips up and loving the friction of Cuba's cock sliding almost the whole way out of him before England moved sharply back down, gasping as he impaled himself on Cuba's length again. It didn't take him long to build up a rhythm, his harsh pants mingling with Cuba's breathy encouragements and the slap of skin on skin every time he filled himself completely with Cuba's cock.

"That's right, baby," Cuba groaned. "Yeah, just like that." He smacked England firmly on the arse. "You're so good, England, you're so goddamned good. I could fuck you all day. I _would_ fuck you all day if you'd let me." England angled himself and Cuba's length rubbed against a spot that made him gasp sharply as he buried Cuba in himself. They were both close now, he could tell, and Cuba's voice was sweeping him further towards the edge – that gorgeous accent was more pronounced now that Cuba was losing control, and his filthy words were sending thrills down England's spine.

"Don't stop talking," he gasped, and Cuba laughed breathily.

"I want to fuck you over my desk," he carried on between his heavy pants, squeezing England's buttocks as he kept moving, hitting that same spot as often as he could. "I want you to get on your knees in my office and suck me off. I want to cum on your face, in your mouth, in your hair." England made a small keening sound in the back of his throat and Cuba smirked. "I want to fuck you so hard that you can't walk for a week," he gasped, and his nails were digging into England's hips, scoring lines down them in the most wonderfully painful way. "England, I want you to scream my name so loud that the whole fucking country knows that you're _mine_."

England came, and he did call Cuba's name, arching his spine and throwing his head back, his whole body tensed and taut as he rode out the high. Cuba didn't give him time to recover, pulling at his hips and thrusting up shallowly into him. England's muscles contracted around him as the pleasure of orgasm still filled his body, and then Cuba followed England's lead, releasing into the other nation's body with a hoarse cry.

England slumped forwards and rested his forehead against Cuba's shoulder as they both felt their bodies relax, their breath slowly evening out and leaving them feeling sated and satisfied. England wanted to stay lying on Cuba, but the other nation's softening cock was still inside him, so he lifted himself up and moved forwards, feeling it slide out of his body. He looked down at the sticky mess on his stomach and felt the first slow drips down his thighs and sighed, reaching for a box of tissues on the bedside table.

Cuba watched lazily as England wiped as much of the warm liquid off his body as he could, still straddling Cuba's hips. Then he tossed the soiled tissues onto the table and lay down at Cuba's side. Cuba stretched an arm out and pulled him closer so that England's head was resting on his shoulder and his arm was curled across Cuba's chest. It was warm and comfortable and felt so _right_. Something tugged a little at England's heartstrings.

"Did you mean that?" he asked suddenly. Cuba stroked a thumb soothingly over his back.

"Mean what?" he asked. "That I wanted to fuck you on my desk? Because I assure you that I would screw you anywhere." England would have rolled his eyes if his comfortable afterglow wasn't being subtly eroded by a case of butterflies in his stomach.

"No," he said hesitantly, "I mean...when you said you wanted me to be yours." Cuba's thumb stopped stroking small circles on his skin and England felt him tense slightly.

"I wasn't trying to be obnoxious," Cuba suddenly said. "I mean, I know you're probably seeing other people too. God knows we live far enough apart, and-"

"I'd stop," England said quietly, and Cuba fell silent. "Seeing other people, I mean. I'd stop. That is, if you wanted me to," he added hastily, feeling the blood that been inhabiting the southern regions of his body only a few minutes ago starting to flood into his face. Cuba didn't reply, so he kept talking, desperately trying to stave off any awkward silence that might otherwise settle in. "I've been thinking these past few days. About us. Not that there _is_ an us, really, but, well. It sometimes feels like there is, and it feels _good_, and I even called America to make sure he wouldn't blow you up if we, you know..."

"If we became an us?" Cuba finished softly. England shifted uncomfortably, caught between regretting ever bringing up the issue and needing to say what was on his mind. Cuba paused for a moment and England closed his eyes, fearing rejection, but opened them again in surprise as Cuba pressed a soft kiss against his forehead.

"To be honest with you," Cuba murmured, "I've been thinking the same thing for a while now." England tried to turn his head and look him in the eye, but it was impossible at this angle, so he lifted himself off the bed, resting on his elbows.

"Really?" he asked, and almost winced at how pathetically hopeful his voice sounded. Cuba smiled and carded his fingers absentmindedly through England's hair.

"Yes," he replied, and he sounded like he meant it. "I know that my country still has a lot of problems and that some people won't approve of you associating yourself with the likes of me." England was about to protest, but Cuba placed a finger on his lips. "But I'm really happy when I'm with you," Cuba carried on softly, "and I want to make you happy too. So if you don't realise you can do better than me then I'm absolutely fine with that." England scowled and poked him in the side.

"Aren't _I_ supposed to be the self-deprecating one here?" he asked. "I said I wanted you and only you, didn't I?" Cuba smiled up at him, looking slightly relieved.

"In a roundabout sort of way," he agreed. England leant down and kissed him softly, feeling strangely as if his heart was aching from the sheer amount of emotion welling up in it. It was a good ache, England decided.

A little while passed like that, the seconds slipping through their kisses and gentle, sensual touches. England couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed in another person's company. Then Cuba abruptly pulled his lips away from England's, looking as if he had just remembered something.

"Did you really tell America not to blow me up?" he asked, looking half amused and half impressed. England flushed a little. He hadn't been planning to tell Cuba about that phone call. He didn't want to give the incorrect impression that America's opinion influenced him in any way.

"Yes," he admitted. "Don't get me wrong – I don't let other people tell me what I can and can't do. I wasn't looking for _permission_. But, well. America's sort of like my best friend," he muttered, embarrassed to use the term, even though America easily referred to him as such. "I didn't _need_ him to approve, but I _wanted_ him to." Cuba nodded in understanding.

"I get it," he said. "You can't help the fact that he and I hate each others' guts. We'll manage to share you...somehow." England smiled a little ruefully.

"You know, he may not be planning to nuke you any time soon," he said, "but he still doesn't like it. The next time he sees you, he might be unable to control the urge to rip your head from your body." Cuba grinned.

"Let him try," he crowed. "I can take him any day!" England rolled his eyes, but couldn't stop the smile tugging at his lips. He was surprised, however, when Cuba suddenly sat up and started looking for something on the bedside table.

"What are you doing?" England asked curiously.

"Making a pre-emptive strike," Cuba said smugly. England stared at him blankly for a second and then lay down again, deciding that he didn't really care what Cuba was doing. He didn't care about a lot of things anymore, he found as he lay there, eyes closed, listening to Cuba's "aha!" as he found what he was looking for. The only thing that really mattered was that Cuba was right here by his side, and that as long as he was there, England would be happy. It was cheesy, England knew, but nothing could ruin the blissful feeling that had settled comfortably into his bones.

"Hey, America!" came a voice from beside him. "Guess whose bed I'm in right now!" England's eyes snapped open in horror.

"Cuba! What do you think you're _doing_? _Give me back my phone_!"

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**A/N - Cut! That's a wrap~ Now that this is over, I just want to say thank you to the people who read, favourited, watched and/or reviewed this fic. Especial thanks go to the people who kept coming back again and again to review (you know who you are and I love you all) - I never expected that this fic would get this many comments since the pairing is so unusual, so I'm really happy that it was able to make people smile and enjoy a pairing they'd never even considered before. That goes for the people who read silently without reviewing as well - thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed the fic :)**


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